No one sees me counting the stars...

Publisher: "You forgot one thing, Sherlock." Me: -re-reads his notes- "What did I forget?" Publisher: "NAMES! Not a single one of your bloody characters has a name!" Me: "Frank is bloody and he has a name. And Charles-" Publisher: -face palm- "Let me rephrase it: no one of your MAIN characters has a name." Me: "So?" Publisher: "You can't keep calling them ' the lady with the black gloves ', ' host ', etc."  (¬_¬) Me: "What if I use capitals like ' the Lady with the Black Gloves '?" Publisher: "No shit, Sherlock. Get me some REAL names!" Me:  -_________________-" Me: "Alright. The host is called....Heathcliff. No comment?" -looks at the publisher- Publisher: "Why are you looking at me? It's your story..."  (¬_¬) Me: "And the lady with the black gloves is Lady Lampoo." Publisher: "OBJECTION!" ...

"Burn in hell, you filthy foreign slut!" the lady with the black gloves laughs. "Why are you doing this?" Snow White cries. The host's wife looses balance. She falls. Her head hits the ground. Her glass with "punch" shatters into pieces... Ok, I lied earlier: this is indeed a murder. But you need to know this to understand the rest, so... The lady with the black gloves rings the bell. "You rang, my lady?" the butler enters the room. "Charles, clean this up. Murdering someone always makes such a mess." "Yes, my lady," he bows. "Oh, and Charles?", the woman says, "If my son asks: his wife ran off with one of the servants.... With Frank." "I'll immediatly pack my things," the poor servant hurries. "That won't be necessary, dear..." The lady with the black gloves grabs the gun hidden under her dress. BANG! "Charles, clean that up as well," she y...